


Best Laid Plans

by GrumpyBones



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Exhibitionism, Gratuitous use of fire escapes, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Voyeurism, bucky is eighteen, steve is seventeen, the lightest of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23166388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyBones/pseuds/GrumpyBones
Summary: Bucky's snuck up Steve's fire escape past curfew more times than he could literally count by the time he's eighteen. A standing invitation to come and go as he pleased from the Rogers' apartment meaning that he's climbed in on Steve mid-dance lesson with a pillow, surprised the poor guy while he's changing, and interrupting everything from drawing, dreaming, and anything else a seventeen year old may be doing alone in their room.But Bucky's only ever seenthisin his own mental concoctions.//The one in which Bucky learns how easy it is to keep walking in on a show when it's intentionally being put on.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 18
Kudos: 171
Collections: MCU Kinkbang 2020





	Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

> So, first and foremost, I want to thank the mods at [The MCU KinkBang](https://mcukinkbang.tumblr.com/) for organizing this. I'm sure the process of putting this all together isn't nearly as easy as you all make it look!
> 
> And secondly, to my artist Lasgalendil over at [her own AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/profile), for putting up with this monstrosity that I absolutely swore would only be 10k.
> 
> <3 Enjoy

* * *

  
  
_Accompanying art done by[Lasgalendil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/profile)_

* * *

It was an accident.

By age eighteen, Bucky could have walked the half mile between the falling apart duplex the Barnes family called home and the apartment building where the Rogers resided if he were blindfolded and fever-dizzy. Hell, he may as well have already proven the fact by how many times he’d managed his way there on the 3AM hour, exhaustion-driven, and sick of waiting out the drunken yelling of a neighbor or his own, more sober and just as obnoxious, family. Only a couple of blocks, a hard left, a lazy right, then up two flights of a rust stained fire escape was all it took to bring Bucky to Steve’s bedroom window.

In the twelve years he’s known Steve, and the most recent four that his mother had given up the battle of keeping him from wandering off at night, Bucky must have made his way over there at an indecent hour a thousand times. And _this_ had never happened before.

He was always quiet. The cops were slow to come to this part of town, but that didn’t mean that waking the building’s other residents was anywhere near worth the fuss of having Mrs. Grenson trying to trip him up with a broomstick again. It was dark on this side of the building, the light from the street lamp doing a pretty piss poor job of illuminating the way. It was all the more reason to take it slow, especially on a night like this when the rain had played a cat and mouse game with the sky all day — leaving the metal stairs slick under his shoes. So he takes them one at a time in careful steps, despite the stupidity that’s going on in his chest.

 _Excitement,_ he realizes, as he grips the railing a little tighter.

Silly, considering he’d just seen Steve earlier today at school. Having walked there and back together — the latter trip just as slow as the former despite the downpour that had coincided. Steve’s wicked tongue had tried to cuss a physical wound into Bucky each time he, maybe not so accidentally, stepped too vigorously smack in the middle of a puddle, splashing them until they were both soaked from the knees down. Though the verbal lashing had been balmed by Steve pressing in closer, the hair on the top of his head brushing under Bucky’s chin as they made the journey huddled together under Bucky’s raincoat. The height difference had made the duel effort of holding the jacket over their heads harder than necessary, Steve’s arms extended in a way that must have been uncomfortable after only a few moments. If Bucky had been a kinder person he would have offered to simply have done the job solo, though the feeling of Steve’s elbow poking against his biceps where their arms criss-crossed had been a thing too good to just throw away.

Instead, Bucky had just kept laughing with each new snap of _‘I said quit it, Barnes!’_ and focused on finding more puddles to hop in instead of looking down at the too-wide smile on Steve’s pretty face.

As he silently tiptoes along the second story to the flight that’ll bring him to Steve, he has no choice but to admit to his own dwindling patience.

 _Too eager,_ he scolds himself. And he definitely is.

Even though he had seen Steve the day before just the same and the one before that, a slow Sunday afternoon spent listening to the baseball radio broadcast and having Steve ream him a new one for not having his homework done. A _‘Those good looks of yours won’t get you into college, Barnes. It would have served you right, ending up at the type of school whose application form is just a place to tape your headshot’_ where the snark had been spoiled by Steve’s grinning blue eyes. It had been a joke, obviously, despite what Bucky’s heart had to say about the almost compliment. Grabbing his backpack, which he’d brought along more to appease his Ma than anything, Bucky found the notebook that held the contents of his half finished history paper and rested it on his thighs instead of spinning the chair right way round to use the desk like a sensible human. He hadn’t even pretended he wasn’t sneaking peeks at Steve where he sat drawing across the room on his bed, though it wasn’t like the punk could have said much — caught staring twice himself.

But those two feelings, and the dozen others simmering below, weren’t the reason it happened. He hadn't planned it or anything. He couldn't have. It was a mistake, really.

Skipping the last couple steps with a series of _clangs_ from the metal, Bucky’s fingers were already about to start working under the bottom edge of the window pane before the reasonable portion of his brain huffed out a reminder that manners were, as a concept, still alive and well.

Steve, for better or worse, always kept the damned thing unlocked for him. Bucky’s one-off appeal for safety’s sake had resulted in only a barking _‘I can take care of myself just fine, Barnes. You just want to think I need you looking out for me’_ as Steve moved his leg towards Bucky’s under the covers, two pajama clad thighs pressed together.

Still, knowing he’s welcome doesn’t mean welcome to scare the guy, Bucky having made it a habit to knock if Steve’s still awake. The seconds’ delay of getting out of the cold or the rain and wind or whatever else Brooklyn could cook up was a small price to pay for the way Steve’s smile would slowly win the territory of his face before waving him in. Though it was just as nice, in its own way, glancing in to find Steve’s face slack with sleep on his pillow, illuminated by the dull one bulb lamp it had taken Bucky far too long to figure out that his friend only left on for him, always clicked off the second Steve would inevitably be jostled awake by Bucky slipping in beside him. _‘Don’t know why I put up with you, Barnes’_ Steve would whisper into the darkness, his cold toes slipping under Bucky’s warmer calves.

For a moment, Bucky thinks they’re merely taking the secondary route. Steve’s head on his pillow, eyes closed, covers pulled up too high on his chest. It’s odd, he supposes, this early — not even 11PM. But Steve and his body have a habit of working against one another. He’ll push too hard, rest too little, and eventually his bad immune system comes batting around, knocking him back down a few pegs. Spring has been holding onto the cold and they’ve had a few late nights recently — up talking about nothing important without the care to look at a clock. Bucky cringes a second as he thinks back on the puddles earlier, Steve pants sopping wet in the chilled air, and kicks himself for it.

Bucky’s debating whether he should just go or not, not wanting to bother Steve if the guy’s not feeling well. He knows his track record with the groaning whine the window likes to make in its warped frame, the creaking floorboards that all the buildings around here boast, the act of sneaking in harder than one would think in a place older than one’s grandparents. Though, he reasons, if he takes a tad extra care he can just take the floor, in case Steve wakes up actually ill and could use a hand rubbing his back as he loses his dinner.

A different voice scoffs at the thought, citing a long list of sources stating the inability of one Bucky Barnes to keep his distance — especially when he knows that he should.

And he proves his own damn point, gaze jumping back from where it had trailed off towards the direction he knows he should be headed home in and straight to Steve’s bed. Nothing can be very far away in a room so small, and even from outside the mattress is only a handful of feet away, tucked into a corner. He knows the springs have gone soft with age, that the pillows are thin, and the concept of spare inches is laughable under that itchy wool blanket. He also knows that they all smell like Steve.

A feeling like hunger weighs down Bucky’s stomach at the idea of being so close and leaving anyway.

Perhaps that’s why, desperate for excuses, he suddenly realizes that tucked in next to Steve is a sketchpad, the smaller of the moleskin ones Bucky had bought him for Christmas. He saves them for what the punk calls _‘Sketches that could actually be beautiful’_ in a factual way. Not that it ever half-assed made sense to Bucky. Everything Steve touches turns beautiful as far as he was concerned and on his less honest days, Bucky tells himself it’s the reason he leans into the brush of Steve’s fingers whenever he gets it. As if it’s not often, as if it’s reasonable that he could possibly need more of it than he already gets. Bucky knows that it isn’t. Bucky just knows that he does.

It’s unlike Steve though, leaving it in bed with him like that, flipped open right next to his pillow. He could pull the covers wrong and smudge the drawing, roll over in the night and wake up with pencil smeared over half of his face, or worse, drool all over the thing and ruin several pages. Which means Bucky’s at least able to convince himself he’s doing a helpful thing when his hand re-finds the window, promising to leave right after. He’ll just get the book to it’s proper place and check Steve’s forehead for signs of a fever, no harm done. Already trying to convince himself that if he happens to maybe run a thumb down the side of Steve’s cheek in a way he would never when the guy was awake then it could be an innocuous thing. Cause it is.

Eyes crawling back to Steve’s face, Bucky’s plan is to be as quiet as possible, just go full still at the first sign of him waking up. Only, something’s already not quite right when he actually lets himself look.

There’s a crease between Steve’s eyebrows, one that normally only comes out when he’s reading someone the riot act, reserved for when he truly needs to concentrate in order to make sure he’s listed absolutely every angle you’re wrong from. His mouth’s off too. It’s open a bit but not in the way it normally falls open in sleep sometimes. No, his jaw looks tense and his bottom lip — the normally full swoop is thinned a bit, like it’s being sucked in between his teeth.

For a moment Bucky thinks he’s having a nightmare. For one second he’s about to bench the slow and steady act. Just hurry in, wake Steve up with a gentle hand on his face and a quiet _I’m here._

That is until Steve shifts his pelvis just slightly towards the outside of the bed, moving into the glow of the lamp on the table and away from the thick dimness that clings to the wall. He’s illuminated in a whole new way, and his lower half is bathed in a gradation of light instead of the one-toned shadow it had been hidden within.

Which means Bucky’s suddenly able to see the way the blanket is moving around Steve’s waist, even lower, maybe — the angle making it hard to tell. An up and down, back and forth motion that Bucky can’t track a pattern in. His eyes trace Steve’s body to a slim shoulder that’s bouncing slightly, as if it’s tensing and relaxing quickly in turn. Up to a lip that is most _definitely_ being bitten, pulled into his mouth so far that Bucky can now only see a slim line of it. Though just as quickly his mouth is stolen from his sightline altogether, Steve’s head rolling back on his pillow, leaving a neck that’s pulled upwards and away, bared towards the window.

Half a chest is pulled out from under the covers as Steve’s whole body careens towards the headboard, stretching and twisting. Prominent collarbones and an expanse of pale skin are added to the list of things that are giving the small dimension of Steve’s bedroom an immeasurable gravity, one Bucky can’t seem to shake himself from.

And maybe it’s making him stupid too.

It takes Bucky realizing that the heavy measure of Steve’s chest expanding and contracting, fast and off-rhythm, means that he’s panting to figure out what exactly is happening. That this isn’t some oddly stunning side effect of a bad dream or cold. That Steve is jerking off and that Bucky is just standing there watching in amazement. Far too late to be any form of explainable.

It takes Bucky witnessing Steve’s lip being released on what looks like a gasp, head lolling towards the window again, chin tucked against his own shoulder, expression bathed in suddenly too discernable pleasure to understand that he shouldn’t be here. That he should have been gone ages ago. Far too long after anyone with half a brain ought to have left.

It takes Bucky’s hand curling against the cold and wet glass of the window, his fingers tensing as the deafening sensation of want floods him, washing out any stock of rationale he has stashed away for the truly desperate times, to recognize the throbbing between his own thighs. Far too hard, too aching, to ignore any longer.

Even as he tells himself that he has to leave, that this has already passed the _how to be decent_ mark a mile back, he’s pressing the heel of his other palm against the bulge in his pants, letting out a groan turned whimper at the too good feeling of pressure. He feels like he’s going to explode in every sense of the word.

 _You have to go,_ he scolds himself. The voice of reason in his head is tinged so thickly with horror that it nearly cracks through what he tells himself must be shock, the thing cementing him in place. For a beat he nearly comes back to himself, his shoulders angling themselves towards the stairs, to where he is about to leave, right now. His eyes, however, don’t quite catch the unsubtle hint that Bucky’s sensibilities are screeching, still stuck on disheveled gold hair and lean muscle and skin that looks warm.

He _has_ to go.

Which is when Steve’s tongue peeks out, sliding across the row of his teeth, the tip gliding along the top edge of his mouth — and Bucky’s suddenly lost in grades of pink. His tongue a pale softness that Bucky has longed to feel for years. Against his own, against his body, skimming across the heated flesh of his dick… _inside_ of him. Steve’s upper lip is still true to his natural color — an unnaturally saturated hue, deeper than Becca’s ballet slipper even, like the shade a watermelon gets when it’s reached peak sweetness. But his bottom one has been worked until it’s nearing red, swollen from the biting and dark enough that it looks painted on like the girls’ at school.

It must be sore. Must smart a bit from the abuse it’s been through, and he wonders, he needs to know what Steve would sound like if Bucky were to get his mouth on it, sucking it gently with a graze of teeth.

The throbbing against his hand feels loud, like a drummer going mad on the bass. An earthquaking boom that keeps resonating in time with his heartbeat. It’s a strong and blaring sensation, enough to be heard, he swears, and it’s almost like Bucky’s trying to muffle it when his fingers wrap around his dick through his pants. He couldn’t tell anyone for sure whether he had approved the action or not, just that he’s never felt this much like a live wire before. Full of possibly dangerous endings and no sense of grounding.

Not in all the years since the first time he woke up with a hard on, jerking off until he came, feeling like he just figured out what the word pleasure meant. Not in all the kisses he’s shared, not even the time that Deb had climbed into his lap, her hands under his shirt and his under hers, thighs rocking — grinding down against him until Bucky had pulled away gasping, frantically telling her they should slow their roll. Not even the once he’d woken up on a hot July morning to the sight of Steve having kicked off the covers, his morning wood straining against the thin cotton of his briefs, and Bucky had laid there for almost an hour, staring silently, fighting the urge to grind his own cock down against the mattress for fear of waking Steve and losing the vision in front of him. For fear of being caught.

Something about the thought finally snaps Bucky out of it and the depth of the creep he’s being hits him smack in the center of chest so hard it feels like a physical thing. Imagining someone else out here, watching Steve like this, making a show of him without his knowledge — Bucky’s hand slips away from the window, leaving a foggy outline of where his warm palm has been pressing against the cooler glass. He’s just adjusting himself, honestly, into a better position — already so uncomfortable in the way his dick is fighting against the constraints of his shorts. Though he’s also willing to acknowledge how badly he probably deserves to rub it raw against the material on the suddenly long feeling walk home when he looks up, _he swears,_ for what’s going to be just one more glance.

Only, the rising and falling of the blanket has become more pronounced while growing less hurried, as Steve must replace the frantic jerking with a slower stroke of his entire length, and a whole new wave of awe shoves Bucky back under.

Intentional motion, intentional tempo. He’d bet his life that the pressure’s just right. Not just gripped rigidly so it’s edging on painful in a desperate search for maximum friction. Steve probably holds himself gently, tight at the base and letting his fingers go loose near the head where the feeling’d be sharper. Where he’d want it more but not as much as he wants it to last. His Steve, always understanding the importance of the long game. Bucky can’t imagine having that type of control with anything in his life, certainly not something like this, his one-on-one’s with his palm feeling more like the type of sprint you flounder through when you’re being chased by a madman. Not this. Not this slow jog through the park that leaves you just the right breathless and glowing with sweat. It’s mesmerizing.

It’s _not_ his fault.

The fact that the blanket has worked further down, revealing prominent ribs and small tan nipples and the gentle valley of his sternum, isn’t helping a single part of this wayward equation. It’s nothing Bucky hasn’t seen before, it’s nothing Bucky hasn’t wanted to lick before, but it hurts all the more compiled like this. He wants to rip the covers away, watch Steve in all his glory, answer Bucky’s question of what Steve does with his thumb during this, as his hips start to roll, pushing up into his fist. He wants to move close and in, kissing Steve’s gaping mouth as it twitches around his flailing breaths with a, _Fuck, Steve. Fuck, you’re beautiful,_ as the guy’s lungs visibly lose pace. Wants Steve to shove him back, hold him in place with one of his snapping orders, and let him teach Bucky how to slow down and smell the sex every once and awhile.

He’s lost. Lost to how this had even begun, lost to why it’s still happening. Lost to the muscle in Steve’s jaw going stiff, the color his chest is starting to flush, the hitch working into his thrusts as it grows more common. Steve’s expression as it turns a corner, slowly breaking away from pleasure buzzed concentration to blissed out disarray. That face. The shapes his mouth are making around a word Bucky would give _anything_ to be able to hear, the heat of his cheeks adding yet another shade of pink to his collection, eyebrows that have arched out of their furrowed state over —

Over very blue, very open eyes.

Ones that are very much staring right back at where Bucky stands on the other side of the window.

A panic that feels very different than the one that had cemented him in place is the one that shoves Bucky down two flights of stairs without remembering them. The bones in his legs still feel as heavy as cinder blocks while the thought, _It was just an accident,_ pounds against the confines of his skull. _It was,_ he pleads, even as he turns back at the mouth of the alley, the toes of one foot already on the sidewalk as if a return to reality will reset this somehow.

He expects to see Steve hanging out of the window, cussing him up a new one to the displeasure of Mrs. Grenson. He expects to see nothing, the whole building swallowed into the ground below, sunken with the weight of his dread.

He only sees Steve’s window, hazy and warm looking from the light of his lamp. The one that he always leaves on for Bucky.

* * *

On the way to Steve’s the next morning Bucky feels full in the oddest of ways, like he’s a suitcase that’s been packed in his normal careless method. As if he’d been stuffed without a plan, a strong sense of chaos ruling the activity, until he was overflowing past a hopeless zipper, his seams begging for mercy before he ever came up with the idea of cramming in the essentials. Like a jacket. Or a sense of what the hell to do next.

Shame and Want had definitely been the guests of honor this morning. He’d been hard when sleep let go of him, his dreams only half remembered, though there’d definitely been a warm mouth and cold fingers. _Too hot,_ had been his first thought of the day as he felt the sheen of sweat he was covered in, blatantly ignoring his dick where it saluted from between damp thighs. It was the least he could do, he told himself, not jerking off thinking about what he’d done last night before he’d even asked for forgiveness for doing it.

But there were other invitees who’d shown up to the party. Both Surprise and Disbelief weaving together, finding a stronghold. It wasn’t like Bucky’d been under some kind of impression that Steve didn’t do _that_. The guy may ask self-righteousness to dance every once and awhile, but there was no mistaking Steve Rogers for an actual saint. But seeing it — he’d never imagined it looking like that.

Lord knows what _he_ must look like when he pulls one off, probably somewhere between a right lunatic and someone having a sneezing fit if his luck is consistent. Not godly patient and impossibly content. Though, it was right in a strange kind of way. Steve could make a living off of shocking people, he’d only need to be paid in nickels for doing it. Braver than he gets credit for, stronger than he appears, and sweet in all the ways his sharp edges would have you believe that he’s not. Steve turning masturbating into the hottest thing Bucky’s ever seen maybe wouldn’t feel like such a revelation if only it didn’t still feel half like a fantasy he’d dreamt up. Instead of an actual reality that he’ll have to face.

Which is how Fear and Hope had found themselves seated at opposite heads of the table.

 _It was dark,_ Hope whispers as he leaves the house, trying to breathe around it. Barely any light trickles into the small alley. An unlit fire escape, under a cloud filled sky. Steve was close to spilling, Bucky could tell, his already nearsighted vision was probably unfocused and blurry to boot. His mind wasn’t looking for anything other than an orgasm.

 _He looked right at you,_ Fear sneers in turn. Your handprint was still on the glass, clear enough to pick up the light — the light that definitely tinted your skin in its warm color. If it’s enough to see on you, it’s enough to see you in.

 _You’re safe. After all — is there anything that Steve could do that you wouldn’t forgive?_ One asks.

 _It’s over. Are you so foolish that you’d compare his love to yours?_ The other one answers.

Bucky’s heart is outside of his chest by the time Steve’s building comes into view, a mix of dirty bricks and grimed concrete. It feels like home, still. It feels like a death sentence. His lungs are still battling with the command to not to hold his breath when his finger reaches for the doorbell, only to bodily snap his arm away when someone manages the feat of slamming the door open.

The first thing Bucky always looks at is Steve’s mouth. He has no good excuse for it, should anyone ask. It sits over a healthy foot below his eyeline and is the least telling thing on Steve’s face — the guy having perfected the art of faking a smile before Bucky had ever met him as kids.

It’s not the most attractive thing either. An appealing color for sure, lips maybe a little too full for a man but you wouldn’t find Bucky complaining about that, the subtle bow of the top one looking as good a target as anything else in the world. Most people would say his eyes, of course. Gorgeous pale blue like summer skies mid-morning with rings around them in a richer shade. Though _most_ people don’t get close enough to see all the green in them, the way it stands out depending on what Stevie’s wearing. How the dimming orange flare of blazing sunset can set Steve’s irises alight with all the colors of the ocean.

Bucky prefers his nose, of all the damn things. It’s not mild like the rest of him is, more like a mountain range than anything that would match the delicate sweeps that construct the rest of his face. Too wide from the front, too pronounced from the side, like he just almost grew into it but couldn’t quite get there. It makes Steve unique in a way not many people manage to be, like he’s invented his own brand of beautiful. Bucky knows he could pick it out of a line up, no problem. Bucky knows it would press hard against his cheek if he ever were to kiss him.

Which is why Bucky always looks at his mouth.

A mouth that is smiling wide and bright and honest as it splits around a chuckle and a, “Something already got you riled up this early?”

 _You,_ Bucky thinks. _Always._

He watches as Steve scans his face, the amusement slipping by centimeters in the interim. There’s almost real concern brewing there, in the eyes where it always is, even as his mouth refuses to dump the dishonest smirk. Hand grabbing the doorknob, Steve pushes it closed the exact opposite of the way he had thrown it open, slow and easy as if giving Bucky the time to ask to go upstairs and lay down for a minute.

Steve is confused Bucky realizes, late. Disbelief making a comeback.

Confusion means Steve doesn’t know what’s wrong. Which means he isn’t angry with Bucky. Which means Steve doesn’t know what happened.

Which means he really ought to tell him —

Bucky forces himself to shake his head, to look like a normal human being, eyebrows back in their proper place and the apology he had planned to spout scraped off of his tongue.

“Just tired,” he mumbles through the hand he’s swiping across his face. “Didn’t get much shut eye.”

 _It’s not a lie,_ he tells his Shame. No matter how much it feels like one.

“Figures, I must have stolen some of yours,” Steve snorts as he locks the door. “Turned in early last night.”

“You getting some beauty sleep’s a worthy cause. Always happy to donate to a situation as dire as that face of yours.”

 _That face you made. Like you were seeing angels. I’d be happy to help, any way that you like,_ cries Want.

“I don’t steal from the poor,” is Steve’s bored response, though his smile is back in full force when he hits the bottom of the stairs and turns back at Bucky, neck craning upwards like it had against his pillow—

“I figured you were coming last night,” Steve says as they fall into step, his tone foul tipping the casual that he’s aiming for. Only Bucky can’t tell what’s wrong with his swing. There’s something that’s not quite disappointment there, something that oddly sounds like an offer — the way people say things like _If you ever need to talk._

But he’s still trying to figure out what that could possibly be a signal for, or if it’s all just a ploy by his fried-out mind to do something stupid, when Steve continues in a better planned tone, “Hit the hay early so I could get _some_ sleep before your jerk-self came banging in, waking up the whole place.”

“Can just say you missed me, punk. You know I hate hearing you sound so heartbroken.”

He feels more than sees Steve’s face turn to look at him where it sits far into his peripheral. And he’s not surprised when he looks in turn, finding the sight of Steve’s chin defiantly lifted, or the grin so big it’s showing teeth, or even the mischievous look in those eyes — the one Steve brews right before he quips something snappy that he’s already particularly proud of.

Which means the Surprise slaps all the harder when Steve says, sure and steady, “Then quit breaking it, Barnes,” laughing real full like as he leaves Bucky half a step behind.

Bucky spends the rest of the walk stuttering out anything he tries to say, toes too interested in catching the sidewalk, as he tries to figure out what exactly this new emotion is that’s tearing his ribcage apart.

* * *

Bucky had dodged the Rogers’ residency for two more nights despite the subtlety of Steve’s annoyance waning. The brat had been helping him avoid the topic, refusing to do the sensible thing and just _ask_ Bucky to stay all nice like. A kind smile and a sincere request not exactly Steve’s brand of getting his way. Instead, Steve had spent the last block to his building with his annoyance taking the form of trying to flat tire the back of Bucky’s shoe, retaliation for Bucky insisting that he better keep on to his own place. Meatloaf night, he griped, the type of horror that a family should share together.

Steve had only huffed, clearly displeased, and subsequently declined Bucky’s proposal that he come along and share in the terror that always resulted from his grandmother’s recipe. It was for the best, in lots of ways, not the least of which was that Steve’s stomach hadn’t been designed with such a challenge in mind. The tentative agreement to go their separate ways hadn’t damned the complaining, of course, but Steve seemed to curve towards acceptance once the offer’d been made — as if it were proof that Bucky wasn’t making it up about the dreaded dinner date. He _wasn’t,_ not desperate enough yet to sink as low as outright lying.

Though he still had asked himself where that line was, the one drawn between an untruth and simple act of not speaking plainly, when Steve had called out from the bottom step of his stoop, right where Bucky had left him twenty feet ago, “Windows always open, you know.”

Having wanted to say, _I do. And you’ve no idea what it means to me,_ in the too stupid to care about being judged way that Steve’s own tongue always operated.

“Say it a little louder, why don’tcha? Let every burglar in the burrough know,” Bucky replied instead, acting on the bad idea of turning all the way round, towards Steve.

Watching, with a painful level of hyper-awareness that’s cursed Bucky recently, as the sure line of Steve’s jaw twitched in a way that echoed how exposed Bucky felt as of late. Like they were pulled rubber bands, ready to snap. It was harder than it should have been, forcing himself to continue on walking backwards. _Away._

Instead of walking towards Steve and just admitting that he hadn’t felt right the past few days. That it’s itched at his brain, his chest, the inside of his throat, not seeing enough of Steve, feeling like a cold he can’t shake from his lungs. The same head buzzing static sensation he gets during school days that just won’t seem to end, knowing a detention’s tacked on in tow. The way that minutes will pass in the fashion of hours as he longs to go home in a way the Barnes family house has nothing to do with.

Cowards choice, he’d stuck to the safety of a half honest, “You _should_ just lock it. Instead of handing out invitations to every no-gooder when knocking would work just fine for me.”

And Bucky had physically felt all his better judgement go down a well intentioned drain when Steve had been quick and loud as he snapped back, “You barely come as it is, how’d it be if I complicated things?” Shockingly not leaving any time to answer before he tacked on the accusation, “I wouldn’t have to live risking life and limb if you’d just stay.”

Not caring who heard. _Never_ caring who hears.

He jokes all the time that Steve’s the runt of a one pup litter and it’s always been taken with a sense of ease that could only come from knowing where Bucky’s heart lies. Steve may be too weak for the fights he picks, too soft for the unaffectable mask he wears, too good for the world he was born into — but he’s always found a way to bear the weight of it. All with a lending hand extended to anyone else who may need it while not having a goddamn clue what helping himself would begin to look like.

Bucky just serves to shoulder the excess. Steal what pieces he can from Steve’s burden without getting caught, happy to trail behind and pick up the waywards that even a determined Steve can’t contain.

At least half the time, Bucky’s not even sure he’s necessary. Not in a literal sense, not like Steve is. Wanted, yes. Loved even, sure. But _needed_ is a whole new world. On his worst days, Bucky still figures that if someone like Steve thinks he’s worthy of even his time then he can’t be so useless.

On his best days, Bucky hopes that if someone like Steve can proclaim to the world that he misses him then he must matter.

Even if he only exists to win Steve’s smile at least once more with his promise of, “Just leave the light on.”

* * *

He’s not silent this time, Nervousness pushing him up the stairs with all the grace of a rhino, bouncing up two at a time. He’s not intentionally loud, per se, but the sound of his haste seems to get caught in the narrow space, echoing off the metal and concrete and brick of Steve’s alley. The thought of him employing anything resembling finesse right now is a complexly laughable one — though he’s thankful for the symptom of his inner turbulence all the same, if only because he doesn’t want to be the guy that makes the same mistake twice.

Not if the sole reason he’d finally relented and decided to come was so that he could make things right between them again.

The walk over had been spent calculating out how to frame this conversation, not wanting to dig a deeper grave than the one he’s already begun to unearth. A sour feeling filling Bucky as he’d come back again and again to the conclusion that layering on a collection of misdirections should be the obvious exit plan. That it would be for anyone else. Forced humor to serve as a disguise, a handful of half-truths to ground his excuses, with a few outright deceptions layered on to pave the way for a forged explanation. It’s a strategy that Bucky could easily argue creates no casualties, but that, itself, rings untrue. Even if all that’d be sacrificed is his and Steve’s long standing agreement to be sincere with each other in a world that’s forgotten the word.

 _It was like watching myself get sucker punched,_ he should start off with an excuse, _I can’t believe I just stood there like that,_ was the simplest answer, _I have no idea what’s wrong with me,_ he could lie, _what a fucking weirdo,_ summed up with a laugh.

He won’t do it, he’s already decided. Unwilling to just bullshit Steve into a forgiveness Bucky’ll never feel like he’s earned if that’s the path he walks to claim it.

But there also has to be a better middle ground than simply stating, _I saw you the other day, by mistake, pulling one off. I was only surprised at first, you can imagine, can’t you? — and I would have left, once the shock wore away, but then your face… it was just the most amazing thing I’ve ever fucking seen and you don't blame me, do you pal, for sticking around for the end of the show?_

He pictured Steve — panting as he came undone — and wondered if there was anything in the world Bucky could liken it to that would make Steve understand how quickly he’d been captivated. If there was any way to explain how pathetic Bucky’s chances had been, trying to leave a fight like that with his morals unscathed. All the while knowing it wouldn’t change anything, should he find the supplies to paint a comparison. Knowing he’d never be able to say such a thing. It was bad enough just to feel it.

 _I didn’t mean to walk in on you like that,_ he should just say, _and I know I should have left the moment I realized,_ was a simple enough apology. _I don’t blame you, if you’re mad at me,_ he could tell the truth, _but I’ll do anything to make it up to you,_ summed up with an honest offer.

It feels like a dangerous bet to place, relying on his ability to keep his head on straight, to not get lost in the details. A complicated balancing act, making sure to not suspiciously avoid them either. To not let it show in his eyes how many times Bucky’d played over the footage of Steve’s mouth in his mind, the way it had moved around a word he clearly had no say in saying. To not give away how Bucky had touched himself, wondering what a word ripped from Steve like that would sound like, wracked with pleasure, swallowed by Bucky’s own mouth.

To not let it be seen on his face how good Steve had looked — craved and falling apart just out of Bucky’s reach.

He has to tell Steve. It’s the right thing to do. What Steve would do. Bucky just crosses his fingers that the genuineness of an apology isn’t nulled by his own longing, the one that feels like it’s trying to kill him in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with his droves of Catholic guilt.

His feet stomp a little harder on the rattling metal once he gets within half a flight, announcing himself as if that will prove that any of what’s happened before was a simple mistake. Which makes the disappointment in his chest when he finally reaches Steve’s window all the more concerning.

Steve is sitting at his desk, still in his school clothes, hunching over a notebook with a pencil in hand as he works on something that seems to be fighting back. Forehead pulled into a tense knot, tongue working between his teeth, though the rest of his mouth is doing something odd — not the normal frown Bucky’d expect to accompany the rest of the expression. The corners curling up a bit, an odd mixture of tense and happy, under eyes that are laser focused and _pleased_ with whatever his fingers had just made.

The heat on his cheeks, pink and warm in the light, is a silly contribution to Bucky’s quickly strung daydream of Steve in battle with the creative process, wielding his pencil like a knight with a sword as he fought his imaginings onto a page. Though the skirmish seems to have been won as Steve tosses the pencil down with a sense of finality, leaning back so quickly the sides of his undone button-up flop open, revealing his undershirt. Worn and too small, even on a frame like his, and money too tight to replace anything that still technically fits.

But the idea that Bucky should remember to _grab the wrong size_ the next time he’s picking some up for himself is lost to sight of Steve’s smile tugging higher. Steve finally releases his tongue, pulling it back into his mouth only to reel in his bottom lip, catching it between the same still parted teeth.

For a moment Steve’s jaw tenses, pressing down on the flesh that must already be protesting the pain, with all Bucky knows that it’s been through recently. Eyes that are sharp and bright and focused, even under half closed lids, as they remain on the page.

Bucky instantly wants inside, if only to know what on Earth Steve could have drawn that would make him look back at it like _that._

Fist raised to knock, he’s cut off by Steve looking up towards the window, his mouth finding its way back to neutral as a smile finds Bucky’s. Fingers uncurling into a silly wave, Bucky thinks nothing of it as Steve’s eyes slip away as he gets to his feet, wondering what passive aggressive quip Steve will add to the act of unlatching the window that must be locked for once.

He’s _sure_ that Steve’s seen him.

Only, Steve doesn’t come to give Bucky entrance.

Sending the chair scooting back as he stands, Steve arches his back for a brief moment, arms stretching over his head before both of his palms slide down his neck to cup the base of it, knuckles going white when he presses into the muscle there. Fingers dragging forward, the tips snag on his collar, tugging it down a few inches until Bucky can see the sharp rise of his collarbones, stately dunes under Steve’s pale skin.

There’s a haphazard undercurrent to Steve’s movements, plenty of reason to think this is all the result of a long day, an aggravating week leaving his friend tired and his motions clumsy. After all, Steve knows he’s out here.

 _He saw me,_ Bucky thinks before Steve’s hands skim down the thin material of his own shirt, traveling over his front. Watching in a removed kind of way as two sets of long artist’s fingers find the closure of Steve’s slacks and work them too quickly for Bucky to process what’s happening.

Steve’s fingers dip into the khakis, thumbs left out to hook the waistband, and the center of Bucky’s whole sense of gravity is shoved a foot forward as the pants give way to the sight of thighs and knees and calves. It feels like he’s being towed closer, Bucky’s hand gripping the corner of the bricks that give way to window’s constructed inlet, the light from Steve’s lamp casting a glow onto his desperately clenched knuckles. He tries to focus on them, on ripping them away, on pinpointing exactly where on his body he’s been tied so he can undo himself while there’s still time.

 _It’s not an accident, if you know what’s coming,_ sounds off like a warning.

 _I swear, he saw me!_ A weak defense cries.

The exchange is enough to do something, a gesture as simple as undoing the lock to shame, a cage which Bucky doesn’t remember assembling. Hand back under his control for a moment, it’s halfway back to his side when all Bucky’s focus is drawn to the sensation of a tremble appearing in his tendons, making it feel like a barely contained thing. It works up his arm, shivering into his shoulders, like it’s trying to get at something more vital.

Bucky only realizes he’s still staring when Steve flops back into his chair with all of his normal grace, shucking his ankles free from the fabric with a series of jerking kicks.

Then Steve’s thighs are wide, his spine curving into a slouch, with one hand carding through his own golden hair as the other rucks up his shirt, pulling the hem above his tiny waist.

And Bucky feels his arm go still as his heart absorbs the shutter, the muscle protesting in the form of refusing to beat, and Bucky’s forced to endure the act of it completely rebooting before whirling back to life and into a frenzy.

 _“Fuck,”_ leaves Bucky way too loud and he literally bites his tongue in admonishment, even if he can hardly blame himself.

The sight of Steve, head tossed back into the palm that’s still caressing his hair as his other fingers continue their journey up his torso. In something like shock, Steve’s mouth snaps open, and Bucky’s heart throws a second fit as he checks Steve’s eyes, closed, before dropping again to where Steve’s hand is moving below the shield of his shirt. It moves, dancing from left to right across his ribcage, twisting, as he must be working his nipples hard, his back arching into the touch even as his face cringes with a hint of pain.

His bottom lip is fuller than ever and Bucky wishes he could tell if his teeth have left indentations behind, wanting to know what marks from Steve’s mouth might look like if they were ever made on _him._

The question feels like a kick to the gut, a duel hurt forming dull in his stomach as a more pointed one cuts to life where he’s biting his own lip too hard at the thought. A poor substitution, his subconscious must have decided, being better than nothing.

Steve’s even closer than last time, and with the light of the second desk lamp on, the display is much more colorful than the first. Bucky can see the flush on Steve’s neck, pink and blotchy where it disappears into his collar. It feels like a tease. Making Bucky want, greedily, to rid Steve of his final layer. Not seeming to matter that there are miles of skin already being offered that Bucky can’t manage to acknowledge just yet; only bringing himself to look once Steve’s hand has been freed from his top, cupped in front of Steve’s mouth as he spits into it, and Bucky tracks the fussless path it takes back towards a vision that Bucky thinks may actually be his ultimate undoing, mostly surprised that there’s anything left of himself to unravel.

He’s seen Steve naked plenty of times. Changing after a swim at the pool, getting ready for the day following sleepovers, and the occasional ill-timed walk in. All symptoms of the type of close proximity they’ve always had, the boundaries they never got around to drawing. It’s been a test, of sorts, for Bucky. Starting before puberty ever became a factor, the act of desperately trying not to look while trying not to look like it was hard not to. Passing glances behind the mask of indifference, the path of his eyes carefully planned with an air of nonchalance, though the image of Steve’s cock — soft in a nest of blond — in his peripheral lived on in Bucky’s memory like something salient and magnetic.

This was very much different.

The pale skin of Steve’s inner thighs is a hard thing to completely ignore, the ivory color standing out against all the dark wood around them, knees flopped open in a position that seems to be made of random chaos. His skin looks like it’d have an otherworldly touch to it. Like it’d feel too soft, too warm, against Bucky’s cheeks, his neck, his shoulders, if he were to kneel in the space between the splayed legs. If he were to —

_You’re lucky he didn’t see you, Barnes. Catch you wrecked like this. Don’t waste the second chance his bum eyes have given you._

It’s good advice. Even if it doesn’t mean much when Steve removes himself from the confines of his briefs, wrapped in one spit-slicked palm, and a shudder takes over the whole of him. The display starts in the tightening of his lean calves, sending him pushing up into his hand, before moving its way up Steve’s body; a breath quaking through his chest in short, fast, huffs before finding an outlet by way of Steve’s mouth which has already fallen back open in what looks like a sigh of relief. Bucky’s feet manage to hold their ground against the pull that’s stronger than ever, as if there’s a piece of him convinced that what’s taking place inside the small room could actually burn him, even while his hand reaches out to rest upon the glass where Steve’s fingers have moved into a long slide.

Hips already beginning to twitch upwards into the rotating grip Steve works himself with, Bucky watches the shadows the tendons on the back of his hand make as they flex — trying to memorize the way they adjust their tightness near the head. The head which is already halfway to red and shiny as Steve’s thumb sweeps up to arc across it with every stroke of the shaft.

It’s a strange realization, the fact that Bucky knows the shape, the length, and width of Steve’s hands possibly better than he knows his own. Long morning hours where Bucky would watch Steve draw in the light of a sunrise, palms pressed together during the heated battles of summer evening thumb wars, and fingers entwined with Bucky’s larger ones as he tugged Steve along through the crowds of science fairs and baseball games and Coney Island once the tourists rolled in.

Bucky knows those hands, has pictured them, vivid and perfect, all over his body to a terrifying degree of detailed scale. Which means that it’s almost involuntary, Bucky calculating exactly how big Steve’s cock is, to the point that he can almost imagine what it’d feel like, full and hard, as Bucky held him in a grip just made for his size. He’s longer than Bucky would have guessed, a thought that Bucky _feels_ in the back of his throat as he swallows too much spit at once, eyes focused on where Steve’s dick pushes past what the limited span of his palm can hold, and only slightly thinner than Bucky himself. His fingers could wrap around Steve so easily, encase him even in a loose fist, watch Steve fall apart as he demanded more pressure.

It’s not such an intimidating thing, the thought of Steve pressing that cock into him, enough to feel, enough that the stretch of it where it flairs wider at the base would burn a bit when he bottomed out. Bucky wonders if he’d be able to tell the difference between Steve’s fingers and his actual cock, if Steve’s particular brand of cruelty would seep over to fucking, if he’d work Bucky’s body open until he was a ridiculous, begging, mess of a —

A familiar feeling of horror snaps Bucky’s hand off of the glass for the second time in too few days, eyes snapping away from where Steve’s dick has only grown more hued in a way that makes it look like it’s aching. Steve’s face is no safer territory, his jaw so tense that the muscle bulges as concentration centers in his expression, that _poor fucking lip_ of his back between sharp teeth, as his lidded eyes focus unwaveringly on the desk in front of him where his notebook still sits.

Though it’s only when Bucky’s mind wanders, just inches away, to wondering again what Steve’s looking at — whether it’s some picture he’s tucked in between the pages or a drawing of his own or if the angle’s all off from where Bucky stands and his eyes are somewhere else completely, that Bucky notices where his hand has traveled. The one that had just put on the act of an innocent lamb, snapping away from the cold glass by the shock of his thoughts, only to press against the warm heat of his own dick through his pants at the idea of Steve looking at some scandalous thing, Steve’s beautiful mind weaving some sin-filled scenario, throwing his glorious self into the center stage of a filthy fantasy.

_This isn’t some delusion, Barnes. You’re sick in the realm of reality._

He scolds his hand away from what it wants for yet another time as he stumbles backwards, his body and limbs out of sync, and his back connects with the railing with a noise that has never met the term muted. And Bucky doesn’t have to look up to know Steve’s eyes are on him, their years of friendship assigning Steve’s gaze a certain level of weight to it. Heavy and solid and undeniable, even as Bucky stares at the grate below his feet, as if his fear could carve a human-sized hole into it for him to fall through.

 _Apologize,_ some lasting voice of reason insists. _If you run you’ll only make this worse._

His shoulders square off before he finds the will to raise his face, and he’s grateful for it when he finally manages the latter, stance wide and defensive against the sight which feels like a physical assault.

Steve’s eyes straining to linger on the window as his neck slowly tilts back just slightly to rest against the chair, chest rising and falling in a too fast rhythm, the muscles in his shoulder rolling with the motion of him stroking himself to a lost tempo, the line of his gaze never wavering even as his focus seems to blur, clearly waning.

As Steve’s mouth moves, his tongue peeking out to sweep across his lips before they part around something, a word that looks dangerously like —

But then his head’s thrown backwards as his pelvis thrusts into his hand, throat bared and jaw falling open, as strips of white cover his tense stomach and clenching fist and blushing cock.

His own hardness protests as it rubs against the fabric of his briefs while Bucky clatters his way down the fire escape like a man being hunted, the discomfort of panic in his chest doing nothing to mellow the thrum of want still coursing through the rest of him, leaving a torn war zone behind in his mind. He makes his way back towards pavement trying not to imagine what Steve could taste like, bitter and sweet and good all at once on a tongue that’d be too eager for it. Tries not to replay the mere second he saw of Steve smearing the cum into the expanse of his own skin, not to think of what a fucking _waste_ it had felt like.

He doesn’t stop at the mouth of the alley this time, the feeling of sidewalk under his feet feeling like another layer of accusation he has no answer for. A real and permanent world that Bucky will have to face in the light of day, come morning.

Bucky runs, ignoring the burn in his lungs and the shake in his legs, all the way home until he’s in his own bed, despite knowing that guilt will follow.

* * *

The only good news for Bucky as he makes his way to Steve’s place is that his brain seems to have given up on him completely, a welded closed door being found where there should be a wealth of panic. So far his expectations have gotten him exactly nowhere helpful and his decision making skills haven’t seen acceptable parameters in days, which all mean it’s almost definitely for the best that he’s been set on some kind of autopilot.

Though, as sure as his lungs are taking in air and as steady as his hands feel at his sides, his heart still gives a thunderous dissent in his chest once he actually stands in sight of the building, only downplayed by the protest that sounds upon the realization that Steve is, for the second time this week, not waiting for him outside.

This time, when his finger reaches for the doorbell, it actually makes its mark without a floundering appearance from Steve. He waits, doing his best not to count off the seconds, before ringing it again to the same result of silence.

Which is when his mind, reluctantly, admits that it may have to get involved.

Unhappily, it divides Bucky’s chances into categories.

One, there’s an explanation for this that doesn’t involve Bucky needing to hurl himself off the Brooklyn Bridge. Steve may be running behind and is upstairs, doing his best impression of a tornado as he flails his way towards getting ready. Perhaps Steve’s sick and can’t find the steam to make it down the stairs despite the fact that Bucky had to physically drag him back up them, kicking and whining, when Steve tried to insist on going to class the last time he had double pneumonia. Steve could have just overslept, still drooling into his pillow, a broken doorbell extremely possible knowing their landlord, and has no idea he’s standing Bucky up. Sarah, even, could have had one of her rough mornings, time getting away from Steve as he helped her start the day. All perfectly plausible things that don’t require his heart being down by his stomach.

Or two, Steve hates Bucky guts and this is a not so elaborate plan to get Bucky to understand that their friendship has been shown the realm of the curb.

Bucky’s never really been able to memorize the steps involved in dancing the dance of optimism, but even the voice in the back of his head has to concede that Steve can only toe passive aggression so far before he pops.

This is a guy who, when his watercolor of the Bay won first prize at the art fair only to find _Fagget_ witten through the center of it the day after it was hung in the hallway at school, had calmly found the charcoal in his bag and encased the slur in his own message of, _“Only an idiot spells ‘Fagget’ wrong.”_ And then proceeded to nearly get himself suspended during the subsequent argument with the principal upon Steve’s insistence that they keep the damn thing posted up.

Sure, refuse to give Steve some of your fries and he’ll make your life a living hell for the next lunar cycle with snarky comments about the _true meaning of friendship,_ but Bucky has a well of experience in rightly pissing Steve off. More than enough to know that when you actually hit a nerve, the silent treatment doesn’t show its ugly head until step eight of the atonement process — also known as day number six depending on how you keep track. If Steve were mad it wouldn’t manifest in the scope of an empty stoop. Far more likely to be announced in the form of Steve standing out on Bucky’s doorstep at the ass crack of dawn, scowl and a dissertation in hand stating all the reasons one James Barnes was a son of a bitch, sources cited and all.

That, combined with the fact that there’s a whole third option of something actually being really and truly wrong is what has Bucky headed towards the now nearly sacrilegious feeling alley beside the house, telling himself that if he even so much as _thinks_ a step out of line then he’s going to continue all the way up to the roof, only to throw himself off of it.

At the sight of Steve’s bed — empty and made in the normal careless fashion — something essential tries to leave Bucky’s body. His heart and will to live seem to clammer over his, desperately clinging on, tendrils of denial as he stares, willing himself to be convinced that he doesn’t understand. If Bucky’s not even worth the energy of a lecture then —

Before Bucky can finish the thought, Steve comes running back into his room, the towel slung round his waist hanging on only by the grace of God himself. He skids to a halt when he spots Bucky crouched outside the still closed window, his shower damp face getting a work out as it sorts through a series of emotions like one flips through a magazine. There’s surprise, for sure, and a touch of worry as his head swings away, toward his clock, with a cringe. When something that may be actual shyness drags by, a small smile tugging into the corners of his mouth as his eyes drop to the floor, that’s dismissed just as quickly as it’d come, face resetting to apologetic as he waves Bucky in.

“Sorry,” Steve gets out in a rush before Bucky can even get in. “I’m falling apart this morning. Was already running behind and then I decided I just couldn’t deal without taking a shower. Woke up covered in sweat like I’d spent the night running laps.”

“You feeling okay? Cause maybe you should—” and even Bucky’s sincere concern isn’t enough to power through the vision of Steve dropping his towel as he begins to rummage through his dresser.

The body belonging to Steve fucking Rogers has always existed as a personal problem for Bucky, one that’s been particularly hard for him to mitigate. Operating in a cycle, Steve always managed to compel a lean layer of muscle onto his frame, despite just about everything betting against him, until a bad spell of health would wipe it off twice as easily. Steve’s spent the last couple years bouncing back between the two, his trapezius making its way to a decent crest, definition working into his arms, thighs pushing against the fabric of too-small pants when he went up stairs — only for a bad round of colds to beat him back down to skin and bones.

Steve always looked beautiful, even when he got so skinny Bucky started worrying about if someone could get so small they’d just disappear, but he preferred Steve like this. Healthy and strong and ready for when the punk decided, inevitably, to do something dumb.

This winter has been surprisingly kind to the guy, a record low of only one bout of flu and bronchitis each. Bucky had been sitting on some extra cash that he’d made over the summer down at the docks unloading ships and insisted some of it be donated towards a new coat after Steve’s old, threadbare, one had nearly disintegrated right off of him in September. The early Christmas present, combined with temps that didn’t seem keen to linger in the hellhole that existed below 25 degrees, had seemed to do the trick. Enough that Steve had spent his normal bedbound season shoveling stoops and sidewalks for some extra money to pay the heat, and it was showing in the appealing lines of his shoulders and back.

“Trying to tell me I look sick or something?” Steve laughs. “Here I was, thinking I was finally doing alright.”

And Bucky has _never_ been more grateful to see a pair of underwear than he is the briefs that Steve’s finally stepping into.

“You’ve been looking good, Stevie.”

It’s a moronic thing to say to your mostly naked friend, alone in their bedroom, before factoring in that they almost definitely have added, ‘peeping tom’ to the list of things they know about you. But Steve must be feeling generous today, another bright smile thrown over his shoulder as he buttons his pants.

“So now you implying that I don’t always?”

It’s both a joke and an easy pass. A simple eye roll and a, _I’m saying you don’t look half-dead for once,_ could get him out of this cleanly. Bucky’s pride has never really ranked well as a priority in Steve’s presence, the levels of ease that their friendship has achieved granting Bucky the luxury of flexing the whole of his stupidity whenever he’s given the chance.

He remembers spouting some philosophical nonsense at 2AM, the hour of visceral honestly due to the factor of exhaustion, about how everyone inaccurately waxes poetic about the freedom birds possess.

 _“They have no say,”_ he had insisted. _“They were given wings. They’re just as bound by circumstance as the rest of us.”_

Steve hadn’t laughed, hadn’t rolled his eyes, hadn’t even changed the subject. Just leaned into Bucky’s side with a sigh that could have meant anything before asking, straight mouthed, whether Bucky wanted to fly. In turn, he had studied Steve’s profile, Bucky searching for a sign of which answer was being sought after, finding only curiosity in the quirk of an eyebrow. His actual eye, stormy in the low light and angled sharply into the corner to be able to see him, gave away nothing.

 _“I’m not too good for walking,”_ he said quietly. _“Just that everyone has an opinion these days, rules about how everyone else oughta be spending their time. I want to tell ‘em all to fuck off. I’ll jump if I want to, even if it’s just to fall.”_

The feeling of prickling nerves and a sudden dry mouth were worth the best of rolling self consciousness for the way Steve’s neck had finally tilted, his head finding Bucky’s shoulder in a way that forced him to breathe again, if only because it was suddenly so easy to. He could feel the happiness in Steve’s voice when he finally replied, once the mostly forgotten cigarette between Bucky’s fingers had nearly burned down to his skin, _“Just not without me, alright?”_

So it’s not really a groundbreaking thing, Bucky shelving the desire to save himself from humiliation, not when another one of Steve’s smiles is possibly on the line.

“And you wonder why I’m always calling you a brat?” Bucky shakes his head, even though there’s not eyes on him to see it. “Can’t even take a compliment without filing a complaint ‘bout the contents of it.”

“Maybe you’re just bad at giving them. Vagueness and flattery aren’t normally stocked as a set,” muffled by the cotton of Steve’s undershirt as he fights it over his head.

And while pride may always take a dive around Steve, Bucky’s competitiveness is always intact. He may be the one that normally calls chicken but that’s never meant he’s not willing to make an ass out of himself on the journey there.

“I like your shoulder blades,” blurts out from somewhere inside of Bucky with all the grace of a one ton bull, his mouth snapping shut on the last syllable.

Steve turns to look at him, relinquishing the small concession of a confused expression before swiveling away, making the four steps to his closet in silence. The subject of Bucky’s confession move slowly under a veil of cotton as Steve slips on a shirt, fingers working the buttons closed with far too much care.

“I —” Bucky starts again. _I want to watch them shaking, struggling under that pale skin of yours, trying to keep you balanced up on your hands when I give up on fucking you gently._

“They’re sharper than mine,” he wisely says, instead, “and it makes them look nice against all that new muscle, you know?”

Bucky desperately wants to know how far down Steve’s blush has traveled, cursing every layer that Steve’s slipped on as the flush disappears down into his collar just like it had last night. It’s the only tell Steve lets slip, head on straight and voice level when he says, “Like yours better. Your back I mean. Could spend an afternoon with some crackerjacks, just watching you do push ups.” His quickly added, “Pretending mine looked like that,” sounding like an afterthought.

The offer sits on Bucky’s tongue, _I would if you wanted. Till my arms give out, just promise to rub them after. I’ve done dumber things to get you to touch me,_ desperately searching for the nerve to be spoken.

But he’s not even given the opportunity to pussy out, Steve making his way out of the room without even a glance.

“I still need to throw something together for lunch. You can go on ahead if you want —”

“I’m waiting for you.”

Steve stalls in the doorway at Bucky’s tone, sure and definitely a little too hard. Turning to look at him by inches with a decidedly neutral expression.

“You’ll miss your first class at this rate.”

“Just means we can take our time then,” Bucky replies, meaning it.

And Steve must hear the, _I miss you,_ that Bucky can’t be bothered to stash away from his voice. The crystal blue of Steve’s eyes manage to burn warm, somehow, when they leave the safety of Bucky’s throat to meet his own. There’s a softness in them that seems to exist entirely against Steve’s will if his too stiff smile is worth a lick.

“Stay tonight?” Steve, finally, asks.

It’s a plain question, without any of his usual mastery. No, _I really need you looking over my chem work, Buck_ or _Please, Bucky, it’s no fun listening to the game without you_ or even the guilt of a _Mom’s been working a lot and it’s too damn quiet here, all alone,_ tagged on that all have worked for him in the past. Steve’s leaving the door wide open for Bucky to get out of this, making it all the more easy to say no to Steve and get away with it for possibly the first time in their lives.

Though it only takes one look at him, full lips wearing a hopeful smile and the rare sight of timid in his eyes for Bucky to give up the pretense of actually having a say.

“Of course.”

Steve’s grin is huge and bright, even smearing grateful as he turns away, making towards the kitchen to pack his lunch, only to toss over his shoulder in a tone too smug to match the expression he left with, “Wanna come watch me work my magic?”

His heart and dick both speak their input, their answers slamming against the thinning walls of Bucky’s already weak feeling filters. Though, thankfully, his brain permits his mouth to have the final say and Bucky knows it’s a close thing when it makes the wise decision to keep itself shut as he follows the sound of Steve through the apartment.

* * *

Bucky had found himself wandering over to their normal after school meeting spot in a kind of haze, not sure exactly what was compelling him there. Anxious still wielded a strong hold, though Suspicion had come from behind to meet the lead, even as that hard to beat out Excitement still flared low in his gut no matter how often Bucky told himself not to be stupider than he already was.

The game faded in and out of the static on the radio, both of them pretending not to know the score as the Dodgers sagged into a loss by the 6th inning, shoulders bumping together as half of the couch was dismissed so they could whisper, citing Sarah having a night shift starting soon as their reason. It was an excuse grounded in plenty sense, sounding good enough to pass as real, so long as the two of them could keep up the act of forgetting that this was the same woman who had once slept through an actual car wreck outside of her window.

It mattered more that Steve was warm through the wearing fabric of his shirt, soft and pliable against the skin of Bucky’s forearm. That his mouth was close enough to count the creases in his lips, to watch them stretch smooth with each new smile, that Bucky could feel Steve’s breath on the side of his neck each time he turned to make a mocking quip as he looked over Bucky’s attempt at his English paper — even as Bucky all but did Steve’s science work.

Normal was a close enough thing, near and possible, and something in Bucky reached for it as a whole other piece tried to bat it away — the choice being wholly removed from him no sooner had Steve locked the door behind Sarah and announced that he was, “Feeling awfully tired,” with wide open eyes and sans the pretense of even a badly faked yawn.

Abandoning him to clean up their mess, Steve was already done in the bathroom before Bucky had cleared their books into some kind of order that wouldn’t leave them totally scrambling to leave come morning.

Which meant that by the time Bucky made his way into the bedroom, shirt awkwardly pulled halfway off, he’d expected to find Steve curled up in his normal ball by the wallside of the bed, permitting Bucky half the room he really needs like always. Not undressed down to his briefs, standing over by his desk, looking down at the open sketchpad on it, telling Bucky, “I’ve been working on some new stuff I think you’d like,” without so much as turning around.

Bucky’s always been a sucker for that tone from Steve, deep and sure as it settles in the valley between a wayward request and a simple command. It’s never mattered that it’s served with a complementary side of choice; Bucky’s always followed where that voice has lead.

Having wandered close enough that he could, in theory, reach out and trace the line of Steve’s spine, Bucky’s journey towards their average proximity, close enough to be _actually_ touching, is cut off when Steve picks up the book, holding it out. Standing mostly dead center in the small bedroom, Bucky feels shoved into an assessing pause, but Steve’s patience is having none of it — just shakes the pad at him once, eyes fixed on Bucky’s face, even when his own don't leave the sketches to meet them.

Even upside down, Bucky can tell what they’re of and his hands are already shaking a bit when it takes the pages from Steve on some kind of impulse.

Though it takes a slow, dragging, moment for Bucky to flip it around. If only for show.

They’re of him, a few of them. Variations of dimly lit in different shades of distress. Hand raised by his face, pressed against an invisible something. Arm reaching halfway across his body, hand disappearing at the wrist where it sits, blocking his belt buckle, reaching down between his legs. Just standing there, body draped in the kind of shock that’d wear well on a battlefield. In each he’s fully dressed, his face more ridiculous in the next than the last, eyes large and heated in perfect harmony with a mouth that’s twisted with desire. He looks _obscene._

The sketches of him encapture the exact feeling that swells in his gut when Steve leans in from where he’s circled around, hooking his chin around Bucky’s upper bicep since he can’t quite make it over the shoulder. A desire to beg for something, _anything,_ erupting when he whispers next to Bucky’s ear, “Thought you were catching a free show?”

A noise leaves Bucky, deep and unwanted, as his tongue waits for better instructions, flailing impatiently at the language center of his mind the way one does at the friend who shows up 20 minutes late to a party they begged you to go to.

And it must sense that it’s on its own, pushing out the now tried and true mantra, “It was an accident,” when a _‘Sorry we're closed!’_ sign is suddenly flipped where his brain used to be.

He’s almost grateful when Steve ignores him. Instead, raising a finger to gently trace a sketch of parted lips where the tongue is busy skimming the edge of teeth. It’s too much, too recognizable as his own lewd desire by far, and Bucky’s eyes can’t stick on it — jumping off as quickly as if they’ve had an ill-fated run in with a scalding stove plate.

“I’d feel bad,” Steve says without remorse, “if only _desperate_ didn’t look so nice on you.”

Steve’s voice is teasing in a way that draws a vivid picture of what the smile its come from must look like, blithe and unaware of how long it’s been since Bucky’s breathed, though not totally without any kindness. Bucky thinks it may kill him to look at it where it sits just out of his sight, angled up at his face as Steve’s cheek keeps brushing against his shoulder. Staring, instead, out the window that started all this. As if he’s casting blame.

Though Steve, like always, intends on getting his way.

Moving to stand where he’ll be harder to deny, Steve plants himself in front of Bucky, doing his best impression of a wall — confident of its own immovability. Reaching up, his fingers comb through Bucky’s hair like an afterthought. Every line of Steve’s body still reeks of casual, loose and patient, but the touch is catastrophic to Bucky’s resolve — pulling his focus in as if it’s being reeled.

“I’m sorry,” and he certainly sounds it.

“For as much as you like looking, Buck, you’re sure blind as a bat.”

Confusion leads the pack, though he continues to meet Steve’s gaze. After all, he’s already had his turn shoving the spotlight onto Steve. He at least owes him the courtesy of Bucky’s attention when he’s actually asking for it.

It’s another bundle of kindling on a pyre built of surprise, the shock of how dark Steve’s eyes have grown. His normal skied hue capsizing into a stormed ocean, the blue surrendering most of its ground to pupils forced wide in the dim light, irises curtailed to rings that look like haloed lighting. It feels deadly in a literal way, the glint in them burning hotter at whatever Bucky’s own are doing before Steve’s mouth morphs into something that reads like smug even out of focus at the bottom of Bucky’s sightline.

“I didn’t mean…” Bucky tries to say, the end of the thought getting lost as Steve’s right hand finds his cheek. The hand that had —

There’s a moment, a second, that Steve’s face morphs into hesitation, fingers growing a strange kind of still against Bucky’s skin, and it’s as hard as anything he’s ever done — not careening into Steve’s palm, cool and calming against the heated plains of Bucky’s face.

Gaze shifting from one of Bucky’s eyes to the other, Steve tries and succeeds to pull Bucky apart like he always does. Till he feels bare and claimed and safe enough to finish the sentence he’d just tried to ditch. “I didn’t mean to just stand there, watching like that. I shoulda — I shoulda —” and god help him, he sounds like a man begging for his life. “But you _looked_ , Steve. You looked so —”

It’s Steve’s mouth that saves his own, hand spread wide on the back of his skull, pulling Bucky down and Bucky just goes like his muscles belong to Steve like the rest of him does. Easy and willing and placid until Steve’s lips find the corner of his, pressing against him with just enough overlap to be called a kiss. Speaking against Bucky’s mouth with, of all the damn things, a chuckle, “You’d be the worst damn crook in the state, Barnes. Never heard anything louder than your version of quiet.”

The floor must drop a couple of feet as realization finally hits, getting out as much as a, “You…” _knew_ twisting into the form of a sigh as Steve shifts, aligning them properly.

And if Bucky felt malleable before, he may not have any bones left now.

Simple stating of facts, Bucky’s been kissed enough in his eighteen years to know how the first ones tend to go. Soft and tentative, gentle pressings of mouths as everyone involved is a little too insistent on not insisting too much.

Kissing Steve, like everything else the guys does, reinvents the concept.

He presses against Bucky like he knows the landscape, kisses him like he’s mapped Bucky’s mouth dozens of times and is sure of the way. They breathe for a second, or Steve does, chest pushing against Bucky’s own, in and out, like it’s still easy to. Not like Bucky who’s near panting, sounding like the asthmatic of the two, before Steve’s tongue finds the seam of his lips and they fall open on a needy groan.

Yet another chuckle vibrates out of Steve when Bucky _whines_ at the feeling of their tongues connecting, Steve coaxing Bucky’s into a conversation with his own. And something in Bucky must finally shake out of a stupor, tilting his head and loosening his jaw as he finally reaches out for Steve. Though he only gets as far as fingertips grazing the curve of a shoulder, like a skittish bird afraid to land, before Steve’s hand finds his elbow and gently tugs it away, guiding it back to where it had started at Bucky’s side.

There’s a question that’s trying to form inside of him, a _Please_ and a _Why_ and a more imperative _Did I do something wrong?_ all trying to roll into one. But Steve must taste his return to confusion. He licks a single stripe down the roof of Bucky’s mouth, if only to achieve the reaction of Bucky’s lips falling open at the sharp sensation, before Steve sucks the pliant bottom crest between his teeth, the sensitive skin burning just past good as it’s slowly allowed to tug free.

A tender apology is delivered in the form of one more kiss, quick and undemanding, as Steve’s hand slides between them, palming the area beneath Bucky’s stomach so low that the heel of his hand rests on the waistband of Bucky’s pants. Reacting to the point of contact like it’s a homing beacon, his hips thrust into the touch on their own accord, and Steve’s smile is suddenly back, pressing against Bucky’s cheek.

“Breathe, Buck,” Steve reminds him, gently, when a moan struggles to sound, Bucky’s lungs lacking for air. “You like to watch, so you’re just gonna watch, big guy.”

Despite Bucky having twice the weight on him, Steve manages to walk him backwards, fingers still curled round the base of his neck as to silence any ideas Bucky may have about leaving. No such thought exists, unable to think of a fucking thing other than the sparks on his tongue and the fact that Steve’s dick is pressed against his thigh with a meager number of layers between them. Doesn’t have plans for _anything_ other than trying to survive this, though with the way his eyes are already fluttering closed at Steve’s hip connecting with his own hardness — Bucky has to admit, he wouldn’t bet on his own damn odds.

The back of his calves colliding with Steve’s bedframe sends a jolt so violently through his system that it could crack a spine, which Bucky isn’t too past sane, yet, to deny the absurdity of. A scenery change totaling a grandiose ten feet shouldn’t feel so immense and yet, the metal cool enough to be felt through the fabric of Bucky’s pant legs, it comes with an undeniable shift in the air. One that only heightens when he’s released from Steve’s hold and kiss at the same time, hand and mouth moving down by inches across Bucky’s skin to bracket his throat. Unable to put how he feels into any sensible category when Steve’s thumb sweeps possessively across his pulse point, hard enough that it heightens the _thudding,_ just as teeth and lips and a touch of tongue introduce themselves to the underside of Bucky’s jaw.

He’ll wonder later, what Steve’s slow game would have been, if he hadn’t found the too right spot just above Bucky’s clavicle and bit it just the lethal amount of roughness. Knees buckling without warning, they both nearly topple over when Steve grabs him by the belt loops first, before righting their balance by shoving a leg between Bucky’s thighs in a moment of sublime friction.

A hum of a laugh leaves Steve as his mouth refinds Bucky’s chest. “Where do you think you’re going?” asked in a teasing tone, soft and easy, like he isn’t rocking his body against Bucky’s obvious hard-on. As if Steve doesn’t know that Bucky can feel the impression of him, firm and straining against the thin material of just his briefs.

Though it isn’t until Steve pulls back enough to reveal his whole face that Bucky realizes the losing battle of keeping his pride, letting out a groan at the sight of Steve’s spit wet lips and pinked cheeks and the look in his eyes which gives away everything. That he’s miles from the unaffected mask that he’s wearing, a measured spoonful of disbelief mirroring the overwhelmed hoard of Bucky’s own in blue that’s shining with a lasered focus — so different than the dazed surrender Bucky’s face must be, as if Steve’s refusing to miss a second of this.

Steve fucking Rogers, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Shit, Steve,” Bucky belatedly answers, barely knowing the sound of his own damn voice, “wherever you want me to.”

A choked huff bangs it way out of Steve’s lungs, the puff of breath feeling a strange kind of pointed where it streams against Bucky’s skin. Steve’s smile is suddenly wide and huge, painfully real, below eyes that Bucky can no longer imagine living within the prison of pause, like the whole idea must have been a case of mistaken emotion on his part. Steve’s sure and smug, even as he ducks away from where Bucky has moved to touch him again — the sharp crescendo of Steve’s cheekbone the target this time — snatching the hand out of the air and kissing the palm as he detours it back to Bucky’s side by his wrist.

And Bucky’s back to whining, before the thumb of Steve’s other hand grazes against the button of Bucky’s pants in a wordless question. Pelvis answering for him, Bucky’s whole body jerks forward like he’s been lassoed around the middle, the mere thought of Steve’s fingers so close —

Only for a lesson on getting your way to come barrelling down the road when Steve’s hand slips a few inches southward to find Bucky’s dick which has left mere hardness behind. He feels like a brick fucking wall where Steve’s palm covers the length of him, fingertips finding the indentation of the head and following the ridge of it, back and forth, before curling his fingers — stroking up and down the underside with a torturous lack of pressure.

Bucky wants to watch, wants to glance down at the display, wants to know what the shape of him looks like in Steve’s delicate hand, but there’s a real chance that the ties he’s bound his willpower in would never recover. He’s already been made enough of a fool, leaking, he thinks, through his trousers after just fucking kissing.

Though Steve already has a plan in motion to help dispose of that evidence, working the button through the slot with one hand as the other too softly traces the outline of Bucky’s cock with two lazy fingers. Up and down, framing him like wheels of a train along a track. Which makes the derailed quake in his tone around the imploring _“Steve —”_ that he has no end for, all the more fitting as it vibrates in harmony to the buzz of his zipper being undone.

The same quake must work its way from his vocal chords, through the center of him, to form as a shiver in his legs as both Steve’s hands slide into his underwear, fingers gliding along the front of his thighs as they push both layers of clothing down and away. Gravity takes them by his knees, sinking to pool around Bucky’s ankles, and as Steve’s palms retrace their path Bucky’s finally unable to fight his desire, eyes dropping to take it all in.

He’s a mess, already. Freed, he curves upwards, the painfully red tip leaving a patch of precum where it had smacked against him upon release. It’s a desperate sight, made all the more pathetic by the strangled noise that leaves his throat as he watches Steve’s hand trace back along his body, inches away from where he’s aching, up his abdomen and chest. Steve leans in, must be up on his toes with how close his face is, and all Bucky can do is feel.

The heat of Steve’s erection against his thigh, the softness of the briefs between them — their single, unwanted, barrier. The smoothness of Steve’s stomach is practically cold in comparison to Bucky’s cock which has grown so fucking hot it may actually be searing a brand into the cool ivory skin. Steve’s hands on him, his shoulders and neck and then in his hair, touching Bucky as if he’s a precious something. And that mouth, not even giving Bucky the chance to gasp after Steve’s teeth scrape along his jaw before saying, “Up against the headboard, Buck.” The _‘now’_ hanging, unspoken, in his tone.

He’s there before he means to move, gracelessly falling backwards onto the bed the second Steve lets go of him. It’s a scramble, kicking his way free from his clothes before scooting backwards, too full of want to allow himself the privilege of feeling awkward when his spine finds the wood of the frame and he suddenly stills. Focusing his attention on Steve and not the way his legs have fallen loose and splayed in front of himself.

It takes Steve’s smile, the drop of his head, and the pure satisfaction in his expression when their gazes remeet for Bucky to understand what he, himself, is doing. The way he watches as Steve climbs onto the mattress, slowly with a sense of purpose, while Bucky hasn’t so much as blinked. Why his own hands haven’t so much as twitched from where they’ve fisted themselves into sheets on either side of him. How his dick is throwing an angry fit, pleading for just a graze of touch, and it hasn’t even occurred to Bucky to silence the roaring insistence himself.

Bucky realizes he’s waiting for instructions when Steve, finally, gives him another one.

“Relax,” Steve says, voice deep and calm. And despite the fact that he feels like a ticking live bomb, the threat of detonation impendingly looming, Bucky’s shoulders drop and his stomach unclenches and his lungs fill full with relief before exhaling languidly.

Steve slips past Bucky’s legs, shooting a look towards the head of the bed when Bucky goes to shove over from where he’s landed smack in the middle, the blond choosing to sit against the wall instead. Then Steve just looks, and Bucky just lets him, face open and honest where he sits in their kitty-corner positioning.

Bucky burns everywhere their skin touches and he goddamn _whimpers_ when Steve’s hips raise so he can slip off his underwear. Though it feels like mercy when Steve’s thigh moves to rest over the leg closest to him, letting his ankle hook under Bucky’s far left one.

Another pitiful sound is being squeezed from his throat when Steve’s back to laughing, shaking his head as he quips, “So you keep saying.” His head rolling against the wall to flop towards Bucky, the hair falling into his eyes masking none of the desire that’s simmering, guarded, behind them.

“Sweet talker with a fast tongue,” Steve says with an easy smile and it’s a wondrous sight, made all the more devastating when combined with the sensation of a fingertip finding the inside of Bucky’s knee and drawing a line up his inner thigh that’s not nearly long enough. “That’s the story your girls pass around about you.”

It says too much about how far gone on him Bucky is that even as Steve’s hand makes to wrap around his own cock, even _after_ it’s begun to move in leisurely passes up and down himself, Bucky’s still able to tear his gaze away when the sudden dipped angle of Steve’s face signals an obvious request for Bucky’s focus back on his eyes.

It says too much that Bucky wants to hum with pleasure when Steve looks so proud of him for the simple accomplishment of not having gone completely to shit. Not yet.

“You’re not living up to your reputation here, Buck.”

“It’s different,” Bucky says, without thinking it through. “This is different,” he corrects, knowing it holds no real sense of clarity. Banking on the hope that the tone of his voice delivers the sentiment in more than just the obvious meanings.

Steve’s hand finds some small amount of motivation in the wayward confession, his strokes sliding along the whole of his length, and Bucky can see the way the muscles move underneath his skin, all the way up through his arm. He watches as they shift, playing in the light, coming together to form a dance. Envious, strangely, of how they seem to know the exact steps it takes to make Steve’s lungs catch like that.

He’s close enough to drown in the details. The hues that make up Steve’s color palette a more definitive thing than they’ve ever been. His whole cock blushed with a subtle pink that grows more brilliant by the head in a glorious gradient, and Bucky longs to watch it grow darker still, redder with want as Steve works himself needy. The hair around the base a darker version than that on his head, as thickly forested as Bucky’s own but softer looking, like it’d feel more like a caress than a scratch if Bucky were ever to lean over and nuzzle in before tasting him.

“Different how?” And Bucky nearly misses the question, lost in the thought of what Steve would smell like.

 _You make me happy,_ Bucky thinks, aware it’s far too stupid a thing to say at a time like this.

Only becoming aware that his tongue has said it without his consent when Steve’s head is rocking back against the wall, his eyes closing as his smile widens into what may be an actual grin, sighing out like a moan, _“Oh… Buck…”_ before centering himself on a shuddering breath. “No confessions of love with your pants down,” he barks, still smiling. “Didn’t your Ma teach you anything?”

And it’s finally, _finally,_ Bucky’s turn to chuckle, if only there were any air left in the world, it sounding more like a panting hiccup than anything else.

“You’ve met her, Stevie. You know that she hasn’t,” he tries to answer casually, pitching high and raspy as his eyes trace the graceful chord of muscle that stretches up Steve’s bared throat.

“Don’t be like that,” Steve scolds him again, lacking any kind of bite. “You’ve got no idea what it’s like. Getting stuck with you isn’t easy.”

It sounds like a promise in Steve’s low voice, the look in his eyes solemn as if he’s swearing an oath, and Bucky’s leaning forward — to kiss him, maybe — before he can think better of it. Though he doesn’t get far, Steve’s leg slipping away from his like a revoked privilege, and Bucky doesn’t fight it when the foot finds the center of his chest and pushes him back, holding him solidly against the headboard.

“I said you were just here to watch, Buck. I know hearing hasn’t been your favorite sense as of late, but you can at least _try_ to keep up.”

If he’s lost for good, he can at least admit it. Fuck all grateful for the way Steve shifts his weight into a slouch when he removes the foot pinning Bucky. It brings Steve’s knee just inches closer to the center of the bed, but it’s enough for it to press into the side of Bucky’s thigh, and Bucky has to struggle not to gape at the point where their skin meets as if it’s a priceless gift. And maybe it is. It feels like the only thing grounding him when Steve’s tongue licks a wet stripe across his own right palm, eyes going soft on Bucky’s in a way that finally releases them, and Bucky watches by his own free will as Steve takes himself back in hand.

It’s a slower start than any of the others have been, Steve’s mind obviously on his left hand — the one that seems content to roam. First sticking close to the one on his cock, palming his balls and rolling them to the same tempo he works the shaft, unhurried like a Sunday morning stroll around the block. Though it only lasts a few moments there, wandering up with a final light tug of his sac, leaving Bucky to wonder whether Steve just isn’t so sensitive there or if _he is_ and just can’t stand it yet… tumbling into the image of how exactly he’d go about finding the answer out.

Steve finding his nipple on a sigh lights a new fire in Bucky, an itch to reach out and touch again, though he beats it back — determined to prove he can learn a lesson he’s been told three times — if only just barely. Temptation is a hard thing to wrangle, not helped by the way Steve twists the responsive nubs, firming between his fingers within seconds, administering a series of nipping pinches that are harder than Bucky would have thought that he’d like. Most definitely rougher than anything Bucky’s tried on himself, and suddenly the need to know what Steve’s gruff fondling would feel like blooms into a weighted longing in the pit of his stomach. He knows it would hurt, pain weaving into the vast pleasure of it, but Bucky thinks he could be _good,_ could bear it for Steve, with the faith that Steve’s able mouth would kiss the bruised flesh better by the end.

The hand around Steve’s cock finally finds a higher gear to slip into, an eager slide replacing the crawl, and Bucky can only watch in a state of reverence, not daring to imagine what he’d look like right now if he was allowed any freedom to move. Fucking into his fist like a wild thing, chasing desire like a hungry cat pursues a mouse, instead of the precise meandering Steve makes look like a deadly sin.

But it grows worse, yet. The facade cracks enough for Steve’s head to jerk backward, mouth falling open in time with his eyes rolling back, all initiated by subjecting a nipple to a scrape of nails. It’s already been worked to an abused shade that’s as ripe as the one his dick has been dressed in, and the extra sensation on the overwhelmed bud must bite Steve in all the best ways.

Releasing his nipple for some well earned peace, Steve rubs a palm over his chest in soothing circles, calming the overtaxed flesh.

 _Who would have thought?_ Bucky let’s himself think. _We’ve finally found the breaking point of the unmovable Steve fucking Rogers._

There’s a sense of reassurance in knowing that Steve even _has_ a limit, and the small proof that the idiot at the heart of his affections is, at least, not wholly unwearying bolsters Bucky’s belief that he may still survive this. Until those fingers find a home in that open _fucking_ mouth and it all comes crashing down again.

Bucky’s whole world seems to collapse with a thunderous surge of emotions. Lust at the ease in which Steve’s tongue reaches out, as if starved for the weight of something sliding against it. Awe at how perfect Steve manages to look — plush lips wrapped around his fingers and hand smearing the wetness from the head of his cock down the length of it. Drowning in a depth of Jealousy that Bucky’s never known before, directed at everything Steve touches.

“Please, Stevie, _please_ —”

But no sooner does Bucky’s pinky inch onto his thigh, still half a foot away from where it wants to curl around his throbbing cock, is he being scolded for the moment of weakness.

“Don’t make me make you sit on them,” Steve warns, eyes losing their fog as they remeet Bucky’s for a held moment.

Bucky’s face feels like an inferno when Steve’s gaze drops to his lap, his swallow an audible thing when it lingers there, Bucky’s dick _twitching_ in some twisted delight at even the small show of attention. He can’t even fathom what he must look like. His neck and chest long ago meeting the all over too warm his blood is boiling at. Panting like he’s mid-dash for his life and leaking all over himself, enough to form a sticky-wet line from where the tip rests against his hip down to the juncture of his thigh and groin.

Bucky’s whole being feels like he’s just gone his third losing round with an incubus and Steve — sitting there, smiling like only those getting their way can — he damn well looks like one.

His hands ache with how tightly he’s clinging onto the sheets and it’s Bucky’s first victory, when Steve must finally notice the way his muscles are straining, clenching all the way up to his shoulders. Sucked into Steve’s mouth on a groaning sigh, his bottom lip flairs white like snow where his teeth bite in, the way Bucky’s knuckles must be by now.

It’s a strange brand of encouraging, that Bucky’s well of restraint drying down to a puddle is what forces Steve to let go of his. His hand moves to a new tempo, faster and with a less consistent beat, twisting counterclockwise by a few degrees near the head like he’s unscrewing a coke bottle, thumb combing over the purple stained tip the way it he had last night.

 _Either a favorite then, or an old habit,_ Bucky thinks, almost delirious with knowing such a thing.

Steve’s grip is tight and his legs are restless, a hitch finally working into at least every other breath by the time he admits at Bucky, “ _God,_ you’re good to look at,” eyes open and voice a reverberating bass.

And for a moment, watching the quick rise and fall of Steve’s flushed chest, Bucky imagines that the heart within it may actually be as off rhythm as his own pitter-pattering one.

Bucky loses most of his made up ground in the next moment, meeting what he can see of Steve’s stormy blue through long lashes and heavy eyelids, right as he’s ordered, “Tell me what you want.”

Though his quick reply of, “Just you,” gains back some territory, knocking Steve further away from unphased.

Fist slowing before stilling completely, Steve rotates his fingers around the base of his cock while staring at Bucky with an expression he’s only seen on his face in Ebbets Field after a long, slow, win. There’s nothing to do but let him look, Bucky forcing his muscles loose and shoulders back, offering his compliance for whatever comes next without being asked. And it’s enough to get a surprised-wide grin, to move Steve forward onto his hands, crawling up the few feet of the induced purgatory between them.

Bucky swears every inch of contact between them sets off a new siren, blaring loud in his brain like relief and amazement all in one. Steve’s skin against his own feels like everything he’s been preached to about rapture, which means it’s nearly a torture, the way Steve so easily swings a leg over both of Bucky’s — straddling his thighs and creating a new space for them to exist in, too small and just right.

The rest of everything could be gone, could never have existed to begin with for all Bucky knows, feeling like the universe has been peeled away to reveal another one just a tad more saturated.

 _Nothing_ has ever felt like this before.

The whole world is Steve now, impossibly close, sitting at the same height like this. Bucky can feel the breath on his face, can count the eyelashes against Steve’s cheeks, smell the same scent he’s always known — a mark of sweet from his honey suckers, the fresh clean of discount detergent, and a touch of bitter from the coffee Steve shouldn’t even be drinking with a heart like his — now staked through the center with the heady combination of sweat, cum, and sex. It works like a drug entering his bloodstream, fast and effective, and Bucky’s drunk-dizzy from it and he inhales deeper.

“You’re so — so —” Bucky tries.

If there’s an end to that sentence, neither of them seem to need it, Steve pressing his lips hard to Bucky’s own and breathing him in, nose pressed into Bucky’s cheek just like he always knew it would.

“Keep watching,” Steve says, barely more than a whisper against Bucky’s skin. “For me?”

And Bucky just nods enthusiastically, like a two brain-celled blockhead.

Knowing what Steve’s about to do seems like it should lessen the blow, the element of surprise having been wrung out, and, _Fuck,_ Bucky thinks, _maybe it does._ Maybe the winding road they’ve taken to here, the slow deliberation of Steve’s movements, the path clear as his fingers reach out, maybe they’re all a saving grace. That all of this, if it had also been abrupt and pushing, might have been enough to rightly kill someone.

Which means the quirk of a blond eyebrow as Steve pauses, an unnecessary and obvious offer to pump the breaks if Bucky wanted to, should be seen as a kindness. Something to be grateful for to the tune of a sweet nod and a soft _Yes_ from deep within Bucky’s chest. Not the whining moaned complaint from a man willing to be massacred — willing to accept anything, so long as it isn't the end of this.

It must say too much about them that Steve understands the noise for what it is, humming in satisfaction at Bucky’s willingness to be made undone. All before he ever takes them both in hand.

Bucky only realizes his eyes have closed, that his head has rolled back, when Steve orders them open again. “Watch,” he says, his voice cruelly steady despite everything. “Watch or I stop.”

He almost can’t. The sensations alone are a suffocating thing. Steve’s cock feels scorching against his own, dripping and hard and velvety smooth. It feels like every dream Bucky’s ever had about this, except filtered through some blissful fog, and drenched in euphoria to boot. But to look at them — it feels like someone’s whipped a brick at his sternum when he finally does.

They barely fit in Steve’s fingers, long as they are for his small size, and the first few strokes are the testing kind, adjusting the pressure until a matching moan from them both chooses the correct setting for him. Length wise they’re even closer than Bucky had calculated, the head of Steve’s cock nestling under the ridge of his own, though Bucky takes an easy lead when it comes to girth. It’s a moron’s thought to have at a time like this — how _right_ it looks, how them.

The same idea may be banging around in Steve’s brain, a whole new blush working onto his cheeks, as stares down at where his hips have started fucking into his still pumping grip, huffs punching out his lungs with each jerking thrust. There’s nothing Bucky can do from where he’s held down by Steve’s weight, thighs wrangled too close together for any leverage to be found, and he knows, anyways, that he’s supposed to be still. It’s easier than it should be not to fight for more, taking what he can get never feeling more like too much before this. The slide of Steve’s slippery grasp, the firmer line his fingertips press in up and down his length, and the pistoning caress of Steve’s dick rubbing against his own all working tandem.

Nails digging into the flesh of his palms, Bucky knows that he’s already falling apart and tries to muffle the worst of it. Focusing instead on the slight hint of blood in his mouth from where his lip’s been torn.

No sooner does Steve notice him worrying it, eyeing where it must be stained a darker crimson, is he leaning down and pulling it into his mouth.

“It’s no fair,” Steve groans against him, a stutter making a home for itself in his tone. “You looking like you do. I can’t get any sleep, up thinking about you.”

Bucky wisely doesn’t call him a hypocrite. Not that he could, if he had the guts. Steve’s tremble wrecked voice batters something loose inside of him, something that’s wrenched out of his hands as Steve’s mouth dips down just left of his chin, teeth dragging along the slight stubble there. Then it’s Steve’s breath on his throat, Steve fucking harder against him, their chests knocking together on his fevered thrusts, the heat and sound and smell of Steve, too much… too much… _too much…_

“Touch me, Buck.”

And Bucky’s hands are on Steve’s thighs, thumbs finding the hollows next to his prominent hip bones, feeling the muscle frantically working under soft skin, as he holds on for what may well be dear fucking life. Then Steve’s mouth is back on his — just in time for Bucky to moan Steve’s name into it — before he’s cumming all over the both of them.

A brand new Steve unleashes at that, one Bucky only recognizes as his ally in all things a fight. Steve doesn’t pause, not for a second, not even as he pulls back — just far enough to regain focus — eyes dancing from Bucky’s lidded ones to his slacked jawed and the skin below his cheek that still feels raw from Steve’s attention. He’s more than a little bit wild, a fierce and frantic spark in eyes, one that seems to be fueled by the hitching whimper that’s still gasping out of Bucky with each fitful stroke of his spent, oversensitive, cock.

Though it’s Bucky that ignites Steve’s ultimate detonation. Hands skimming up Steve’s flanks in mirror, the pads of his thumbs dragging over the peach skin of his hard nipples, tugging them towards the center of his chest so rough in comparison to the way Bucky’s voice comes out, sweet and gentle and barely loud enough to hear, “Knew you’d be beautiful like this.”

“Bucky—” falls from Steve’s lips in such a familiar way, the sight of it pinging sharp against the walls of Bucky’s memory bank. The way Steve’s mouth had looked those nights, the word Bucky could never sound out, the desperate desire to know what singularity Steve’s normally mosaiced mind whittled down to as he finally crashed into the waves of an orgasm. “Bucky… Bucky…. Bucky…”

It sounds like a plea and Bucky answers it with a kiss too tender for the moment. Soft lips and mild intent, mouth lazily moving against Steve’s own like they’ve only just begun.

 _I got you,_ Bucky hums in response to the choking moan, the warmth of Steve’s release on his skin feeling like a sacred covenant. _I love you,_ he writes with a brush of his tongue.

Steve murmurs, “You too,” in response to Bucky’s continued inability to keep his mouth shut. Though the _No shoes, No shirt, No confessionals_ policy seems put on hold, Steve sucking on a patch of Bucky’s shoulder hard enough to bruise for sure, followed by a soft kiss and a softer, “Me too, Buck.”

It’s not surprise that rears its head, or relief or even wonder. But a dreamy, warm sensation in his chest that feels like coming home. A quiet _thank god_ and a scoffing _fucking finally_.

A final shiver trembles out of Steve’s muscles as he strokes them a few more times, a winding —temporary— goodbye, before letting go of their cocks as they reluctantly work their way back to limp. His whole hand’s a mess, covered in their mutual release all the way down to his wrist, and Bucky finds another sigh to wring out of his lungs as Steve’s fingers raise in the direction of his own mouth.

His eyes are on Bucky’s as his tongue reaches out, not in a small kitten lick but a bold swipe, collecting a sample on his tongue before leaning in. Bucky meets him halfway, only mostly sure that he’s allowed to, though Steve seems pleased as pie when their lips meet and Bucky’s sucking his tongue into his mouth like a starved craved man, suddenly desperate to know the flavor of _them._

Bitter mixes with sweet, leaving a trace of something salty behind, and Bucky’s already wondering how familiarity will affect the taste when he takes in the expression on Steve’s face, watching in stunned awe as Bucky’s tongue searches for more. Steve’s eyes follow when Bucky’s drop to his still coated hand, and he seems to inherently understand the request for what it is, bringing his fingers up to Bucky’s mouth and smearing his bottom lip wet with cum.

It wouldn’t matter what they tasted like, the alluring flavor a mere consolation prize to the way Steve’s eyes widen in a state of amazement, inhaling sharp and deep, as Bucky sucks his lip clean. Leaning back in, Steve takes his turn in the form of an unhurried kiss before letting their foreheads rest together, close like Bucky wants him.

“You keep that up and you’ll be the death of me, Barnes,” sounding like the 95lbs he is for the first time in hours, before reaching behind himself for his discarded briefs — poorly working the mess off his palm.

The sense that they’re winding their way back to themselves loosens something in Bucky, enough that a snort is able to bang out of him. Paving the way for an honest, “Don’t sell yourself short, for a moment there I was half in the grave.”

Steve just laughs, fingers stretching through Bucky’s wild hair in a way that’s surely only making it worse. Nodding before Bucky has a chance to finish asking the question, “Can we —?”

Slipping under the covers, Bucky’s hand finds Steve’s chest and gently pushes him backwards against the mattress. It’s a striking thing on a face like his, confusion spinning towards understanding which shifts into a genuine smile as he opens his arm for Bucky to curl under. Steve downright _giggles_ when Bucky’s face presses into his neck, nose nudging that spot behind his ear which has always served as a well-hidden ticklish point, though he doesn’t fight it as Bucky breathes in the smell of him.

Kissing the sweep of Steve’s jaw goodnight, Bucky’s head finds the ample basin above a collarbone and nuzzles into it, wondering if he’s only imagining that his heart is plagiarizing the beat of pulse from within the body below him. It’s a ridiculous, and lovely, thought — one Bucky wants to wrap them both up in. Tossing a leg over one of Steve’s, Bucky presses into the smaller man’s side, as an arm circles around his shoulders.

And it’s not so shocking, once the dust really clears, how well they fit despite what they look like as individual puzzle pieces.

He’s tired, the haziness starting to seep back into the corners, feeling warm and comfortable and right. Which is probably how Bucky ends up saying, “I thought you were going to hate me,” in a certain way, sounding far more intentional than it actually was.

“I don’t think I’d know how to do that, Buck.”

It’s an honest answer, the tone of his voice the level kind that Steve only uses when he’s full of conviction. Stating something he’s sure of deep down to his bones, like exactly what to say to get his nose broken and the fastest method of finding one Bucky Barnes in a crowded room. Something he knows the way that sailors know stars and a child knows summer. Something that he’s absolutely _positive_ of.

It makes Bucky ache for the time they’ve lost.

“ _I_ should hate _you_. Turning this whole thing into a dramatic circus instead of just talking to me like a normal human.”

“Because our heart to hearts are so infamously successful,” Steve snorts, fingers playing with the hair at Bucky’s nape where he’s let it grow too long. Twirling it between his fingers in a lackadaisical way, so much so that Bucky wonders if Steve even knows that he’s doing it. “When I tried to tell you about kissing Dolores you stormed out like you’d left the stove on.”

“‘Cause I was jealous, you idiot!”

“Damn it,” Steve hisses. “I keep forgetting to put on my mind reading spectacles before you come over.” The arm not holding Bucky starts to fuss about under the pillows, Steve exclaiming an “Ah ha!” before he mimes sliding on a pair of glasses. “Weird,” he continues, voice pitching deep with put-on worry. “All I’m getting is radio static.”

Bucky pinches him hard in the side, not feeling bad in the least when Steve’s responding shriek is far more sincere. “You _would_ consider yourself innocent in all this.”

“I more than sung my lines and we both well know it. _You’re_ the jerk always pulling a runner on me.”

“If you were expecting me to magically know the show wasn’t over then you should have lent me those glasses, punk.”

“Or…” Steve let’s a pause drag out. “You could have just had the half a brain it’d take to realize we’ve always been a duo act.”

There’s a feeling just left of falling that takes over Bucky’s stomach. Loud and overwhelming, all of the intensity with the terror cut down. More like being caught — maybe. It’s nothing he knows how to say. His thumb sweeps over the skin he’d just pinched, light and slow, and let’s out a grumble from deep in his throat that doesn’t quite match.

The fingers in his hair tug a little harder, and Bucky’s face tips upwards enough that Steve’s lips make the angle to reach his forehead. “Now quit trying to drive me mad and get some sleep, will ya?”

“Typical,” Bucky complains into the skin of Steve’s throat. “Guy calls you gorgeous and next thing you know he’s harping on you about beauty rest.”

Steve squeezes him a little tighter, pressing his face into Bucky’s hair, close enough that Bucky can feel his smile when he says, “You’re talking nonsense again. Just want you ready for our performance in the morning.”

He warms at that, his face surely heating if only a bit, and he’s never been more glad to have his expression hidden from Steve. Though Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if the temperature change in his body was a noticeable thing, kissing whatever of Steve’s skin so happens to be next to his mouth as a poor distraction.

Unphased, or simply unsurprised, Steve’s already moved on. Letting out an, “Oh,” and a chuckle and a murmured, “Cat’s already come home,” that only makes sense once he detangles himself just long enough to stretch out, clicking off the glowing soft yellow lamp on the bedside table.

The one that he always leaves on for Bucky.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies owed: 
> 
> Huge cross continental finger guns to my beta, and friend by force, [Page.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pageling/pseuds/Pageling) You're the only innocent party in this.  
> [BCrush!](https://bcrush.tumblr.com/) The size of the beer I owe you for making this suck less will probably kill you.  
> And Adam. For making the days a little more bearable.
> 
> Should you desire, you can find the mess that is I over at [GrumpyBonesey](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/grumpybonesey) on Tumblr.
> 
> See y'all bitches in hell.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Best Laid Plans (art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23177296) by [Lasgalendil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil)




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